


Penelope

by Waltzing



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, Friendship, Gen, Magician!Arabella, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-06
Updated: 2016-02-06
Packaged: 2018-05-17 17:49:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Waltzing/pseuds/Waltzing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Jonathan did not want me to act the widow, and I vowed to myself I would not become a Penelope, obediently waiting, spending my days weaving and watching for his return."</p><p>Arabella has a decision to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Penelope

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the JSMN Kinkmeme.

It was an overcast January afternoon, and the library at Starecross was as dreary as Arabella's mood. She had read and re-read the spell's instructions, written on scraps of paper in Childermass's less-than-neat hand. She was more than used to his handwriting by now, but still the letters seemed to squiggle and swirl in front of her eyes, becoming as indecipherable as the marks on Vinculus's skin that she and countless other magicians still puzzled over, five years after they first came to light.  
  
She sighed rather more loudly than she had intended, and rubbed her eyes.  
  
Childermass, who was busy with some writing on the other side of the room looked up at the noise. "Is there something I can help you with, Mrs Strange?" he asked, not unkindly.  
  
"No, no thank you, Childermass," she replied, feeling guilty that she had interrupted his work. "I feel rather slow and dull today. I believe the attempts yesterday have quite worn me out."  
  
Childermass nodded. He understood. Arabella knew that he himself had stayed up even later than she had the night before, trying out the latest spell of revelation to emerge from the combined minds of the York magicians, but when she had come down the following morning, it was to find that he had made no more headway than when she had left him. She imagined he must certainly share her frustration at their lack of progress, but he was a hard man to read.  
  
Childermass nodded at an cushioned armchair in front of the fire. "Perhaps you should rest a while, if you are tired."  
  
Arabella gratefully slumped down into the chair, in a rather unladylike fashion, but it was only Childermass in the room and he did not much care for propriety.  
  
From where she sat, she could surreptitiously watch Childermass working. He wrote in the same manner that he did everything, efficiently and methodically. While their shared lack of progress made Arabella grow despondent, Childermass showed no signs of slowing down. He was intensely focused whenever he had a purpose, and seemed inured to the disheartening effect that failure had upon her, something Arabella envied him for.  
  
Even telling herself that all the hard work of all the magicians in the land was sure to one day bring Jonathan back to her wasn't enough to lift her spirits at that moment. Her thoughts drifted back to Childermass. She knew why she toiled at this, and it was not for love of magic. In fact, if someone had told her five years ago that she would one day count herself one among a near army of practical magicians, she would have begged them to stop teasing. And yet, here she was, and all for Jonathan. But what was behind Childermass's devotion to their cause? She had often wondered about his loyalty to Mr Norrell: she imagined it must run deep for him to continue so diligently night and day on this apparently fruitless campaign to bring England's two greatest magicians back home. He had been in Mr Norrell's employ for a very long time, she knew. She supposed that must count for something.  
  
Without thinking, she blurted out "You must miss Mr Norrell very much."  
  
Childermass slowly looked up at her, over his new reading glasses.  
  
"Oh, I am sorry!" she exclaimed, as she remembered herself. "That was impertinent of me."  
  
Childermass removed his glasses, to see her more clearly, before replying, "I worked for Norrell for twenty six years. It would be hard not to miss someone who you have grown so accustomed to."  
  
"I rather think you were more than just accustomed to him, Childermass," Arabella said, quietly.  
  
Childermass pretended not to hear.  
  
They sat in silence for a moment before Childermass began to write again.  
  
Arabella stared into the fire, listening to the scratch of Childermass's pen and imagining all the sights and wonders Jonathan must be enjoying in Faerie, and trying to think less on the terrors and dangers that she knew lurked there too. She sighed again and thought, _Jonathan, wherever you are, I hope you and he are having a better time than those of us you left behind._  Initially, after he disappeared, she often found herself talking to Jonathan in her mind, sometimes imagining whole conversations with him, but lately she seemed to spend more time chiding him for his absence. She knew it was unfair, that it was not his choice, and that he would not want her to act the widow, but still, society demanded otherwise. Enough scandal had attached to her after her apparent return from the dead, and her reputation was perhaps not as pristine as it had been after society heard of the endless dances in Faerie, becoming still further tarnished when she took up magic as a profession.  
  
It frustrated her sometimes, that experimenting with magic for the practical purpose of saving her husband should cause antipathy to be directed at her from certain circles, while said husband, busy gallivanting around Faerie, was feted as one of the greatest men of the age. Despite the fact that, by all accounts, he had done much the same for her when _she_ was trapped in those same lands.  
  
Perhaps when she was younger, the sheer unfairness of that discrepancy would have greatly distressed her, but the one thing she had found as she grew older was she simply cared less. She watched Childermass a moment longer. The warm glow of the fire softened his features a little. He frowned now and then while concentrating, which she found endearing.  
  
When he put the pen down to stretch his fingers and crack his knuckles (a habit that often made her grimace and him grin when he noticed), she asked, "did you imagine your life would turn out this way?"  
  
Childermass considered her a moment, a touch of amusement showing around his eyes. "You are inquisitive today, madam."  
  
"Yes, I suppose I am," she said, laughing a little. "Still, this is no passing fancy, I am truly interested in your answer."  
  
Childermass looked down at his hands for a moment before responding. "Did I imagine I would go from child pickpocket to the head of a society of magicians? No I did not. Did I imagine the magic of John Uskglass would return to the country in my lifetime, and that I would be a part of it? I dreamt of it, but I never dared hope."  
  
Arabella nodded, satisfied. "You dreamt in a way that I did not. In truth, I never imagined more for my future than a house, a country husband and a child or two."  
  
Childermass smiled at that. "You expected a quiet life with Mr Strange?"  
  
"Yes, yes," she laughed, "I know it sounds absurd. But one can dream. Young ladies do so more than anyone." She twisted her wedding ring around her finger. "Looking back now, I find that I could easily have coped without the quiet house, the mild husband." She hesitated. "But I always did want a child."  
  
Acknowledging the desire out loud made Arabella feel oddly vulnerable, but when she looked up, she saw that Childermass was still listening, patiently and apparently without judgement.  
  
"Jonathan did not want me to act the widow," she continued, emboldened, "and I vowed to myself I would not become a Penelope, obediently waiting, spending my days weaving and watching for his return."  
  
"Avoiding suitors," Childermass added, watching her carefully.  
  
Arabella was unsurprised that Childermass knew his classics, but nevertheless coloured at his words, and their implications.  
  
She faltered. "I could not, that is to say, it would be unwise to risk my reputation with someone who might divulge. Society is not kind to widows who do not grieve sufficiently. Society is especially unkind to widows whose husbands are still living, I have found."  
  
"Forgive me, Mrs Strange, but you are young yet. There is still time for you, is there not?"  
  
Arabella found herself reaching for her handkerchief. "I am older than I was, Childermass. I try to keep my hopes up that I will soon be reunited with him, but we have made such little progress. One cannot live solely on hope, and soon enough a child will be another thing that was no more than a dream." She dabbed at her eyes, willing the tears to stay put. When it was clear they would not, she made to stand up and leave the room, but found to her surprise that Childermass had already silently come over to her.  
  
She lowered her handkerchief and Childermass caught up her other hand in his. Looking her in the eye, as if willing her to understand, he said, "Mrs Strange, is there something I can help you with?"  
  
She blinked, attempted to compose herself and said, quietly, "'Arabella', if you please. We have known one another long enough."  
  
"Arabella," Childermass agreed.  
  
"As for your question," she hesitated, but made herself continue, "I rather think there is."


End file.
